He doesn't have enough hands, and neither does she--not enough to clutch or undress or reciprocate, much less all three. She takes care of holding on and he catches her hunger on his tongue, through her hands, groaning when she groans and the ache of it starts to sweat them both. Hangs him from his own spine and bites his teeth to her bottom lip, once, before he pulls back.

He can't do this; he can; he has to. His head wanders and his heart tries not to be here at all, but his body is happy enough, hungry enough, that he shifts to split her on two fingers, giving over to the fact of warm and wet and the tremors running up her body. With his freed hand, he starts to tug her pants down, give himself more room to see, more room to work, both fingers curved in and rubbing the upper wall experimentally before returning to driving into her steady and quick.

Hunger and want are edging into need, and he--follows, needing to see this through, needing to see and feel her go over, and fuck all the rest.